He Was My Best Friend
by color thyme
Summary: John Watson brings flowers to Sherlock's grave three years after his death.


It was barely dawn, the sky just beginning to turn hues of pink and orange around the sunrise. A lone figure walks among tombstones. One hand is gripping the cane he uses to support his limp, the other holds a bouquet of flowers whose colours complement those in the awakening sky. John Watson may not have picked the most original flowers to bring to his friend, but they came from the heart. It was the third year anniversary of Sherlock Holme's death. Or, technically, the day after.

The doctor knew that yesterday this graveyard would have attracted friends, fans, mourners, and a variety of others whom he frankly didn't want to deal with. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly… Sherlock's death had hit them hard, but their pain was nothing compared to what John was silently enduring. And so he avoided the anniversary, blaming his unwillingness to attend on his limp and poor health. The doctor had sworn to himself that he wouldn't end up like Harry, but the promises of being numb, free from the holes so violently torn in his very soul the moment he saw his best friend fall from that building, were the only things keeping him sane.

But today the cemetery was empty and quiet, in fact it seemed as if the entire world were still asleep. As John takes the last turn before Sherlock's grave he mentally braces himself. He could see it a thousand times and still have to struggle to hold the tears back.

There is a second man in the graveyard looking at Sherlock's grave, surprising John as he rounds the corner. For a fleeting moment John wants to turn around, go home, bring the flowers some other time.

Most of all he doesn't want this stranger to see him cry.

But the doctor continues on his path, stopping at the other man's side and daring a glance at him. For a moment it looks like he could almost be Mycroft, same general build and height, but something about this stranger is so not-Mycroft that that suspicion is easily thrown out. The man's collar is turned up and his scarf is wound tightly around his chin, obscuring his mouth and nose. But the one thing that causes a lump to form in John's throat is his hat. A simple deerstalker. Just the slightest detail like that is enough to bring on a terrible wave of memories.

The other man looks just as surprised to see someone else here as well.

Watson shakes his feelings off as he places the flowers on the grave, his posture remaining rigid and on-guard, even if he has no reason to feel this way. _There's nothing wrong with another person at Sherlock's grave_, he reminds himself, _you're not the only one who misses him_.

As he stands back up he catches the stranger watching him. There's silence as both men simply look at each other, before the first bird of the morning begins its' song and the tall, gaunt man tears his eyes away.

_His eyes_ - Ice blue, almost grey, a very unusual colour.

"Did you know him?" The stranger asks, breaking the uneasiness that was threatening to convince John to hobble away and come back some other time.

It takes the doctor a moment to speak. He clears his throat before admitting the truth that makes sharing this moment with anyone so painful.

"He was my best friend."

The other man nods. "So you're the doctor?"

"Doctor Watson, yes."

"Something wrong with your leg, doctor?"

"No -" John starts, so used to denying it. But wouldn't that look strange, denying a leg injury while using a cane? "Yes. It's an old injury that's never healed properly."

Another solemn nod from the stranger. "I'm sorry to hear that. I was a fan of his, you know." The sudden change of subject is a relief.

"I'm glad. He… he deserved all of his fans."

"It's a shame he turned out to be a fake."

"He was not a fake!" John shoots a poisonous glare at the stranger. . He knew he promised Sherlock he would spread that lie, but there was no way he could agree to it while standing right in front of his grave.

Maybe he was just seeing things, but John could swear he saw the other man smirk under his scarf. "I'm sure, as his best friend, you'd know best. I appologise for making such an accusation."

Humbled slightly by the man's swift apology, the doctor feels a bit foolish for his outburst. He brings his gaze back to the tombstone.

Sherlock Holmes. It's only a name now; it used to be a legend.

"I'm sure you have stories of your time with Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson?"

"I had a blog, you are of course free to read it."

John turns to leave, but the man stops him with a light touch on his shoulder.

"I'm much more a fan of hearing stories told than reading them. I don't mean to invite myself over, but perhaps we could swap adventures some time? "

Those piercing eyes are looking straight at him again, something about them makes refusing him impossible.

"Of course, stop by any time. God knows I could use the company."

"See you soon then, Doctor Watson."

John begins to walk away before remembering he hasn't told this man where he lives. He turns; "Oh, by the way…"

But the space in front of the grave is empty. The stranger is gone, there's no sign he was ever even here.

The doctor slowly approaches the tombstone again, touching it lightly with his fingertips. Something catches his eye, rustling in the slight breeze. He steps behind the grave and stoops down to pick up what has been discarded onto the grass. As he turns the fabric around in his hands two things become apparent; one, it's a scarf, and two, inside the seam a pair letters has been sown.

-SH.

_This is an unedited little thing I wrote last night in about an hour and a half, so I'm sorry for the choppiness and any errors you might see. I just needed something to channel all my feelings into after The Fall. T_T_


End file.
